


Take Your Caution or Take Your Chances

by looksoclosely



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Divorce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Football | Soccer, Kissing, M/M, Slash, Smut, Wet Dream, lots of swearing, terrible spanish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looksoclosely/pseuds/looksoclosely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school (secondary school?) AU.  The one where Louis' family is falling apart and Harry is truly awful at Spanish.  The one where Harry is trying as hard as he can not to be himself and Louis is an arrogant, mouthy footballer who doesn't know when to shut up. The one where Louis is a protective older brother and Harry accidentally pees on him a little because even in an AU what better way is there for two people to get to know each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Won't You Let Us Wander?

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own One Direction. The title comes from "Dial Tones" by As It Is; the chapter title comes from "Hold Back the River" by James Bay. Though I did do some research, I am not British, so if you are British and my depiction of a secondary school is laughably inaccurate, sorry--I can only write what I know. This is my first AU and I expect it to run about 30-40k(?), so please let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy!

Harry

The new school resembled nothing more than a giant cement block. That was because, unfortunately, it was about fifty years old and only new to Harry. 

“You ready for this?” Gemma asked, squeezing his shoulder. This was unusually affectionate for her—she adhered firmly to the sibling school of showing how much she loved him by acting like she didn’t give a fuck—but she knew what had happened last time. He wasn’t sad that they had moved, but it was scary all the same, not knowing anyone.

“Yeah,” Harry said, feeling anything but ready and forcing a smile onto his face. If Gemma could tell the difference between this and his real smile, she didn’t say anything. Harry had gotten pretty good at this fake smile, practicing in the mirror every morning. It wasn’t that he was never really happy, because he often was. He just never wanted to be caught without the alibi that a smile provided ever again. He wanted people here to think he could laugh anything off, that he never cared too much.

“Gem?” Harry said suddenly, Gemma already halfway out of the car. 

“Yes, brother mine?” 

“I feel like my hair looks stupid,” he blurted anxiously. Well, two seconds in and he had already failed at being cool.

“Shut up. Your hair looks good long and curly like that. Your nose is too big otherwise,” Gemma said without even looking at him, and though Harry made several disgruntled, faux-offended noises he needed her customary blunt decisiveness right now.

“Thanks,” he said dryly. 

“It’s what I’m here for. Now, be a dear and get the fuck out of my car. It’s already 7:10. Either that or I’ll leave without you and lock you in, and you’re going to end up suffocating from heat like one of those sad forgotten-dog stories from the news.”

Harry climbed out of the passenger side, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and messing up his curls reflexively with his other hand. “Not your best work, Gem, threat-wise,” he called after her, giving her space. He knew she didn’t want to walk into the first day of her last year of school with her dorky little brother from year eleven. “Dogs don’t have opposable thumbs, which is kind of the whole reason that’s a danger.”

“You can take your opposable thumbs and stick them both up your ass,” Gemma called over her shoulder, which meant that Harry had had a point.

By the time Harry got to his homeroom after getting lost twice, it was 7:17. Great. He was walking in late on the first day like a new kid in some teen movie. The teacher looked up at him, the overhead fluorescent lighting glinting off her glasses. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to go to the main office, get a tardy pass, and come back,” she said.

“But I’m new,” Harry said stupidly, completely forgetting all his plans to try to attract as little notice as possible for being The New Kid. This wasn’t how the teen movie usually worked. By now, the teacher would have put an arm around his shoulders and asked everyone to give a warm welcome to new student Harry Styles.

“But it’s 7:18. It wouldn’t be fair if I enforced the rules for everyone else and not you,” the teacher said, smiling a firm, veteran educator smile.

Harry sighed, gripped the straps of his backpack, and walked out of the classroom and down the hallway before realizing that he didn’t know where the main office was, and there was _no_ way he was going back in there to ask. The hall looked deserted until he heard a loud voice from around the corner saying, “Main office with me, Mr. Tomlinson. _Now_.”

Harry sped up and poked his head around the corner, hoping to find someone who could give him directions. Instead, he found a staring match between someone whose face Harry couldn’t see but who was obviously an administrator—the thinning gray hair and rumpled suit coupled with what Harry had heard said that much—and a boy. The boy was much shorter than the man, with rumpled, spiky brown hair that looked like a bedhead and jaw thrust aggressively out. His arms were folded and he was sneering. “What exactly am I accused of this time?”

Harry wanted to scream, “ _Stop! Don’t you know that’s a teacher? You’re going to get in trouble!_ ” but then realized that there was absolutely no chance that this would be new information to this Mr. Tomlinson. Whoever the boy was, he obviously didn’t mind giving attitude to a teacher. Harry, on the other hand, felt like he was breaking out in hives whenever he even _thought_ about confrontation with a stranger, much less an authority figure.

“That bathroom—“ the administrator pointed “—reeks of marijuana. School has been in session for exactly four minutes, and you are the only one I have seen coming out of that door. It doesn’t take Einstein to add it up, Louis.”

“Actually, since Einstein studied the quantization of energy and matter, I doubt he faced much simple addition,” Louis drawled, cocking his head to the side and fixing his adversary with a smirk.

Harry bit his lip. _No,_ he told himself. _Shut up. Stop it. Don’t even think. No smartasses. No bad boys. No any boys. Not this time. You’re going to wait until college, remember?_

While Harry was busy trying to convince himself to turn around and leave— _but I’ll never find my way to the office,_ his mind protested, though Harry knew that wasn’t why he was still there looking—Louis had made another snarky comment about the wonders of secondary science education. Now, the administrator snarled, “My office,” turning on his heel and grabbing Louis’ collar.

Louis’ smirk slipped, and Harry thought that he was going to repent for a moment and maybe save himself from the deep, deep shit he was in right now. Then he realized that Louis was gazing right back at him for the first time since Harry had started eavesdropping. 

“Who’re you?” Louis said, scowling.

“I’m Harry,” Harry squeaked. _Shit, fuck, shit._ Puberty was never in his favor when he needed it to be. This new Harry-is-cool thing was not going well at all. He realized at that moment that he had been holding onto the straps of his backpack since he had left his homeroom like a kindergartener coping with the first time away from Mummy, and dropped his hands quickly to his sides.

“Well, Mr. Bowman, it looks like this is your man,” Louis said, clapping Harry on the shoulder and digging in with his fingers. His middle finger—no, this wasn’t imagination—his middle finger traced softly back and forth against Harry’s back. The contact lasted barely a half-second, and Harry hoped that his resulting shiver was therefore undetectable. No, Harry didn’t like confrontation, but at that moment he would have given anything to be able to demand of Louis what exactly had just happened.

Mr. Bowman surveyed Harry, and he was momentarily glad that he had been holding onto his backpack straps so tightly because it made him look even less like the type of kid who would smoke weed in the bathroom. “What are you doing out of homeroom, Harry?” he asked, keeping his hold on Louis’ collar.

“I do not appreciate the way you are manhandling me,” Louis said indignantly, obviously hamming it up since Mr. Bowman was not holding him very tightly at all.

“You little punk. By the time you file anything on me, I’ll be happily retired on some Caribbean beach,” Mr. Bowman said, grinning. “Now, are you going to come quietly?”

Louis sighed and nodded, rolling his eyes as Mr. Bowman released him.

“I’m looking for the main office!” Harry said, seizing his opportunity. “My homeroom teacher told me that I needed to get a tardy pass, and I’m new, so I didn’t know where to go.”

“You can follow me and Spicoli here,” Mr. Bowman answered.

“You’re new, eh?” Louis said critically. “Fresh meat?”

“Funny, I’d have taken you for a vegetarian,” Harry replied automatically, and then flushed pink. If he said anything at all today that didn’t make him sound like an idiot or flirting or both, it would be a miracle, but he saw Louis crack an infinitesimal grin anyway. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yes, but I’m year eleven.”

“As touching as I find your efforts to welcome him to our humble campus, you _are_ supposed to be in trouble. No talking,” Mr. Bowman said to Louis. “This degenerate is a year above you, and I would suggest that he not be your first friend here. Wrong crowd,” he added over his shoulder to Harry.

As much as Louis had just proven himself to be the wrong crowd—mouthy, soon to be high, and trying to pass his crimes off onto Harry—Harry couldn’t resist thinking that that was unfair. That was how you created self-fulfilling prophecies. He wanted to tell Louis that he didn’t agree, that Louis was worthwhile no matter what and besides there was more to everyone than met the eye. He caught himself and swallowed the words. Harry had always known that he had a bizarre saving-people thing, and moreover it would be completely weird to say what he was thinking to someone he had quite literally just met. 

Harry got his tardy pass and headed back to homeroom, sliding into his seat just as the bell was ringing and jumping up again to pass to his first class. The last he had seen of Louis did not look promising—there was a lot of talk about no proof and demanding a lawyer and, bizarrely, right before Harry had collected his pass and left the office, an assertion that this school needed him, which Harry thought was going a bit far. 

Through his first three classes, Harry remained cognizant of the fact that he had already filled his quota of idiotic comments. He was entirely silent through English, history, and biology, although he noticed the girl next to him in bio (Shannon? Sharon? Shay-something? She was a mumbler) kept sneaking what she obviously thought were subtle smiles at him. Harry smiled back. She seemed safe, at least, unlike… _no. If you’re not doing this, you’re really not doing this_ , he told himself. 

It was in the bathroom after lunch, on his way to his fourth class, that everything went wrong again. Harry had almost finished peeing when he heard a voice behind him aggressively say, “Oi! You!” 

He whipped around instinctively, forgetting that he should probably finish aiming into the urinal and give a little shake before doing anything else, and watched in horror as several droplets of pee landed on Louis Tomlinson’s bare arm. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Oops,” he said, fighting his natural urge to clam up and generally become a human scarecrow when mortified. Freezing in place and fixing Louis with a bug-eyed stare would not help the situation, nor would it give Louis the impression that Harry was even a vaguely normal person.

“Hi,” Louis said, his smile acidic. He inspected his arm for a moment before walking to the sink and starting to wash.

“I’m so—I’m—I don’t—I’m so, so sorry,” Harry said, attempting to produce humanoid sounds that would also form recognizable English words when strung together. 

“Fuck, why would you pee on someone?” Louis said, drying his arm off with a paper towel and walking back to Harry, eyes narrowed. _His eyes are blue_ , Harry noticed, _and he has little laugh lines like he smiles more than he gets angry. But, shit, he looks angry right now._

“I don’t know,” Harry said wildly, and then remembered. “Why did you shout at me?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I shout at you?” Louis said. “You stalked me this morning while I was trying not to get detention.”

“I didn’t stalk you,” Harry mumbled. “I was lost.”

“And now you’ve gone and peed on me. That’s two strikes,” Louis said, holding up two fingers for emphasis.

“I don’t have any diseases?” Harry offered, looking at Louis’ hands now. He had long, slim fingers, and Harry imagined how much better those fingers would feel than his own.... _No,_ he told himself again. _You are pathological. You can’t stop thinking about the things you could do with this boy even though he hates you._

“I don’t know what’s more worrying,” Louis said, shaking his head, “the fact that you thought that would be an appropriate response, or the fact that you said it like you weren’t sure.”

“I’m sure, I just….” Harry was going catatonic from embarrassment again, and— _no,_ he told himself again firmly, _just embarrassment. That’s it_. He could feel himself sweating and hoped it wasn’t visible to Louis. “I don’t? Like? Confrontation?” he tried, feeling himself up-talking more strongly with every word.

Louis looked at him, head cocked to one side like he was trying to figure Harry out, which was the last thing Harry wanted. “In that case, you should probably stop peeing on people, mate,” he said, and walked out of the restroom.

_That’s it,_ Harry thought. _This has to be the low point. Something really embarrassing has to happen on every first day of school, and that was it._

In Spanish, he stood in the corner with the rest of the class while the teacher explained that he wanted them “en el orden alfabético.” Harry twisted one lock of curls around his finger and wished he could comb all of his hair into his face so that he would be unrecognizable, maybe look a bit like that girl from _The Ring_. “Harry Styles?” the teacher called out, and this time everybody turned to look at him at the sound of the unfamiliar name.

Harry walked to his seat. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” the teacher called next, looking around. Harry narrowly resisted the urge to bury his head in his arms and thought, _Never mind. That wasn’t the low point._

At least Louis was nowhere to be found, which was bizarre since Harry had literally just seen him three minutes before. Perhaps his last school had just been a paragon of educational excellence (Harry doubted it) but he had never met anyone quite as disinterested in education as Louis seemed to be. He had never met anyone who had a bedhead that looked quite so good, either, nor anyone with such razor-sharp cheekbones. _Fuck, I can’t even pretend that I don’t find boys attractive for one day_. 

Louis walked in thirty minutes late, and Harry wondered why he had even bothered to come. They had already reviewed regular and irregular conjugations, as well as past preterit and imperfect. It was basically everything Harry had ever learned in Spanish condensed into thirty minutes, which really made him wonder whether the past three years had been worth it. 

Harry tried hard not to wonder how close Louis was behind him, and exactly how weird Louis might think he was after that whole bathroom incident. Unfortunately, he was so engrossed in avoiding any thoughts of Louis that he was actually only thinking about Louis and barely registered what Señor Rodrigues was saying until the words “proyecto” and “compañeros” filtered into his brain. 

“Voy a dividirlos en pares,” Señor Rodrigues explained. Harry could see it happening like a bad film, but it wasn’t until the teacher got to them that he realized he and the boy on whom he had just urinated would really have to work together for a still-indeterminate length of time, since he hadn’t been listening. He was more horrified at having to suffer the extended embarrassment from today than the prospect of working on a group project with someone who seemed to struggle with even attending class.

_At least that was the worst part of the day_ , Harry thought forty-five minutes later as he walked out of the school and headed toward Gemma’s car, just as a text vibrated in his pocket that turned out to be from her.

_I’m going to be a little late so just wait for me at the car ok?_

Harry texted back an affirmation and leaned back against the car, looking idly over to the football pitch where the team was just starting to leave the locker room for practice. _I may not be able to do anything,_ he thought, _but I can watch_. Footballers always had his attention, with their compact muscles that somehow uniformly gave them Harry’s ideal male physique. _And, lord, those quads_. He always had a bit more fun watching football with his relatives than he would let on.

The team started a warm-up drill, Harry spectating appreciatively as each passed to the next number on the roster, everyone in motion. “Call out one number!” the coach yelled. “No names, boys, I want _numbers_. You’re not going to have time to yell a bloody love letter at the rest of the team.”

The drill continued, the boys passing and running more quickly. The coach increased his volume. “No numbers, now. Know your man, know where you’re passing, and for fuck’s sake, Payne, don’t look down at the ball. It should be where you think it is. Don’t anyone start feeling secure on this team, boys, because this is still early days and _anyone can be cut_.”

Harry had forgotten about Gemma entirely. He’d be happy if this became his new afterschool pastime, especially as the team stretched in earnest and then started running an overlap drill. 

“This is messy, lads!” the coach yelled. “I don’t feel good about adding a defenseman. Everybody leave the field, and let’s simplify this down. I want Tomlinson playing fullback and running the overlap, Horan at wide midfield, and, Payne, you’ll be the winger, and look down at the ball one more time and I don’t care how many years you’ve been on this team, I swear you are done.”

_Tomlinson. Shit._ Harry knew that every event so far today had conspired to make him look like a crazy, uncontrollably urinating stalker where Louis was concerned. He knew he should just turn away and examine the parking lot rather than continue to spectate, especially since his love for football resided in a moral gray area between sports fandom and voyeurism. But he didn’t. He watched Louis execute the drill flawlessly, running past the midfielder into the corner, watching his teammates with a gaze so sharp and calculating it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, trapping the ball to cross to the striker for the goal, making the perfect pass, Payne scoring. Harry hadn’t noticed this previously, but Louis had to have the best ass he had ever seen on any boy. What his slouchy jeans had obscured, his soccer shorts showed off to their full advantage. Add to that, he was really good at football, like _really_ good, and as the coach gave him the first bit of praise Harry had overheard all practice he realized what Louis must have meant when he was blustering about how the school needed him.

“Alright, now everybody line up. I want five positions, five more ready to go.” As the coach outlined the full drill and Louis and his teammates jogged back into line, Harry was so busy staring at the miraculous outline of Louis’ bum that it took him a moment to realize that for the third time that day they were making eye contact, Louis raising his eyebrows and then mouthing something that looked suspiciously like, “What the _fuck_ is with you?” 

Harry turned around so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Gemma said, arms folded, leaning against the car with a small smirk on her face. Harry wasn’t sure how long she had been there. It would be just like her to watch her little brother embarrassing himself by ogling the football team, perhaps even take a bit of video. 

“No,” Harry muttered. “Let’s go. Quickly.”

***  
Louis

It had been over two weeks, and he still hadn’t figured out what to make of Harry Styles. At first, he had thought he was creepy, the wide, green eyes and mess of curls obscuring a black heart that craved intense staring and wanton urination on strangers. After spending two weeks observing him in Spanish, however, Louis wasn’t so sure if Harry had a depraved bone in his body. It was weird, and Louis wouldn’t have admitted were he at gunpoint that he had even noticed this, but something about the way Harry handled objects—pens, pencils, index cards, water bottles, anything, really—was too gentle for him to be quite the monster that Louis had imagined. For someone with such large hands and gangly limbs, Harry was surprisingly careful with the world around him, lifting his chair slightly to avoid scraping it against the floor, or tearing out a sheet of notebook paper slowly with his index finger pressing on the perforated edge. 

He hadn’t talked since that first day. Louis could tell that he felt awkward about what had happened and the cold shoulder that Louis had given him ever since, even though everything had really been Harry’s fault. Well, to be more precise, Harry hadn’t talked to him in English, and his Spanish was so truly awful that it almost didn’t count. Today, he turned backward to Louis and said, “Yo soy un equipo este fin de semana. ¿Quieres tú?”

Louis’ brow furrowed as he tried to decipher what Harry had said. _I am a team this weekend. Do you want it?_ It sounded like an offer for a gangbang in a poorly translated Spanish porno. 

“¿Cómo? No entiendo que estás diciendo,” Louis said.

“Sí,” Harry replied, sounding relieved, and Louis realized that Harry’s comprehension was at least as bad as his speaking.

“No, Styles, I just told you that I don’t understand what the fuck you’re trying to say,” Louis said under his breath, cursing his luck that they were paired together for this project. The one semester he could have used some overachiever aiming for Oxford, and he got this unilingual clusterfuck of a partner for a project that would determine half his final grade. “Just use English before Señor Fascist comes around to us.”

Harry looked mortified and pressed his lips together. _Honestly_ , Louis thought, _it’s like trying to talk to a woodland animal from a Disney film_. 

“I was wondering?” Harry started, and Louis wanted to snap at him to hurry the hell up and stop phrasing every word as its own question but knew that Harry scared easily. “If you would like to work on the project? This weekend? It’s due at midterm? So maybe we should start?”

“Yes. Let’s do your house. Saturday, after morning workout.” There was no way Louis was letting Harry come over to his house, not the way things were now at home.

“Ok. Wait, he’s coming,” Harry said, looking up to see Señor Rodrigues pacing slowly down the row. “I don’t want to lose my puntos de participación. Nosotros vamos a español.”

Louis rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to admit it, but Harry’s total inability to speak Spanish was a little adorable. “Sí. Pués, encontramos nuestra actividad en la página setenta y siete,” Louis began, opening his textbook to page seventy-seven and spewing a few more sentences of Spanish bullshit that answered the first question on the page before their teacher moved on, satisfied. Louis had no idea why he had just saved Harry there, since Harry had never done anything for him but stare awkwardly at him at practice and in the hallway and basically everywhere. He decided it must have been the protective older brother in him—Harry’s shyness and general incompetence in class brought out the same instincts that Lottie or Fizzy or Daisy or Phoebe would have done. 

He looked back, and Harry was grinning at him, like really smiling. Louis had never seen that before, which was probably because Harry needed to be spoken to as if he were an easily spooked colt, and Louis had never even developed an inside voice while growing up in a house with six other people. Harry’s whole face made more sense when he smiled. Granted, he looked like an alien when he made the weird, bug-eyed face that he usually wore when he interacted with Louis— _as if I’m going to kill him or something_ —but he wasn’t half bad-looking when he smiled. 

“Gracias,” Harry said, and then widened his smile so that Louis was concerned he would snap a muscle, obviously proud that he had said something correctly. 

“De nada,” Louis said.

Football practice was particularly long that day—it was Indian summer and Louis was sweating through his practice jersey—and he found himself idly thinking that he couldn’t wait to get home. He hated to catch himself thinking like that. It was like expecting a lollipop after a doctor’s visit. Treating home like a safe spot in tag was kid stuff. 

Louis picked Lottie and Fizzy up from the library, trying to make conversation about how their days were to not much avail. All of them were trying to figure out what to anticipate at home and not very responsive to anything else, but Louis could hardly turn to the backseat to take odds on whether Mum was going to throw another dish at Dad.

As it was, his mother and father were in the kitchen, talking in low, quiet voices, while Daisy and Phoebe were wrestling in the family room. Mark had already brought them home from school. Louis had to remind himself that the man in the kitchen wasn’t his father, not really. _Mark’s your stepfather_ , he told himself. He had been correcting himself every time he made what he now realized was a mistake, because he could see where all this was heading. What was coming would be easier to weather if Mark were his stepfather, _which he was_ , because it wouldn’t be like losing a father, and besides, Louis had already had his real father leave him and had been just fine. Mark was just a replacement—had been a great replacement, a replacement who had taught Louis how to play football and basically everything Louis currently knew about how to be a man—but the second time someone left didn’t have the potential to fuck you up like the first did. It couldn’t.

The conversation in the kitchen was getting louder. Lottie and Fizzy were already in their rooms, but Daisy and Phoebe didn’t need to hear this. 

“Up to your room, girls,” Louis said, trying to sound authoritative and disentangling Daisy, who had had Phoebe in a surprisingly professional headlock, from her sister.

“You’re not the boss of us,” Daisy said, trying to squirm out of his grasp and hitting his arm with her small hands.

“Yes, I am. I’m the eldest, and I want to watch TV in here, so scoot.”

“Muuuuum!” Phoebe wailed.

“Listen to your brother!” Louis’ mum Jay called back. She sounded stressed, her voice almost brittle, and Louis knew he was making the right decision.

Phoebe pouted but followed Louis up the stairs. He still had to carry Daisy—she was most definitely the troublemaker out of his younger sisters—but he gave them a bag of gummy bears from his room for their trouble before going back downstairs. Stan was texting him asking if he wanted to get drunk tonight, and Louis had half a mind to do it.

“If you’re so fucking unhappy why didn’t you go to couples’ counseling when I asked you?” Jay said loudly from the kitchen, and Louis froze with his hand on the remote. 

“Neither one of us is happy!” Mark answered. “Don’t twist what I just said; you know it’s true. You _know_ we haven’t been happy for years.”

“So you just give up? Is that what you do when you’re unhappy? Because it’s not what adults do, Mark. You promised me for _life_. It’s not _till one of us has a midlife crisis do us part_.”

Louis buried his face in one of the couch pillows. He had definitely inherited his conflict resolution skills from his mum, but he still thought she could have been a little more delicate.

“A midlife crisis? Jay, this is not a midlife crisis.”

“I guess I wouldn’t know, would I? I’m too young to have one.”

“That’s what happens when kids start having kids, I suppose.” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You saw how much it messed Louis up that his dad left him. Are you going to do the same thing to our girls?”

“You know what, fuck you for trying to guilt me. It’s not the same thing. You let some wanker bareback you when you were eighteen, wow, shocker that it didn’t work out. We’ve been together for over twelve years now, and it says a lot that you would even compare me to him.”

“How dare you? How dare you speak about my first real relationship in that way? Well, fantastic, Mr. Marriage Expert, please tell me more about how my relationship with Troy was doomed to fail. Was I supposed to fuck my secretary to make it work?”

Louis felt like screaming.

“I don’t need this shit. You call me when you’re ready to talk like an adult.”

“Wonderful. Storm out, Mark, because _that seems real bloody mature_ ,” Jay screamed, finally losing it.

“I am so fucking sick of this!” Mark yelled back, and Louis could hear footsteps in the hall, the coat closet door bouncing off the wall as Mark yanked it open. “All you do is treat me like I’m a child who needs to be kept in line and told how to act.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you have a secretary who treats you like the boss man, isn’t it,” Jay snapped. “Here’s your keys. Get out.”

As the door slammed behind Mark, Louis finally ventured into the hall. “Mum?” he said. He couldn’t find her at first, and then saw her sitting on the floor, back rounded against the wall, face pressed against her knees. 

“Mum,” Louis said, sinking down beside her, rubbing her shoulder. 

“Louis, what are you doing?” Jay said, looking up. Her face was blotchy even through her foundation, but she was still looking at him with motherly concern. “You shouldn’t have had to hear that.”

“Yeah, well. I chased Pheebs and Daisy out of the family room so I could watch TV, but I got distracted. It was my fault for eavesdropping, Mum, so don’t worry about it. I’m not a little kid anymore. I can handle myself.”

Jay stood up, and Louis could see what an effort it took for her to pull herself together even to do that much. “Louis, would you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, anything.”

She picked her purse off the chair in the kitchen and started digging through it until she found her credit card, then handed it to Louis. “Take the girls out for dinner, alright? When you come back, everything will be fine.”

“Of course. Are you sure you’re alright alone?”

“Yes, don’t worry about me. I’m well aware that I have to be all right alone. I just need a couple of hours with a carton of ice cream, and then I’ll pull myself together.” 

“You deserve that. I’ll have them back around eight-thirty.”

Jay gave him a watery smile and took his face in her hands. “Look at you. My boo-bear, all grown up. I’m so proud of you. Don’t you ever forget that. I know you heard what Mark said, but don’t ever think you were a mistake. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Mum, stop or else I’ll start bawling, too, and then there’ll be no one to take the girls out to dinner.” Louis made himself grin and ducked out of her embrace, grabbing the car keys. “Who wants hamburgers?” he yelled up the stairs.

***

As he was going to bed that night, still a little drunk from sneaking out with Stan, Louis reaffirmed a vow that he had made many times. He was never going to fall in love. It was that simple. Love had a timer on it, and eventually one person was always left devastated while the other person got away scot-free, or could pretend better. The devastated person usually happened to be his mum, but it wasn’t a question of allegiance. It was the fact that someone to whom you had given everything could turn on you so quickly. Louis would be damned if he would let someone get close enough to him to hit him where it could hurt, to use every secret Louis had against him like Mark had just done to his mum. He was never going to cry like that. He fell asleep feeling something cold and tight in his chest and wondering if it was possible to actually make your heart smaller. 

He was finally working on the project with Harry, except they had decided to do it at Louis’ house for some reason. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Louis said as Harry settled himself at Louis’ desk. “My house gets pretty loud, and, well, I—just—you might not like it.”

“That means we can be as loud as we want,” Harry said, turning around and giving Louis that shit-eating grin, and even though it was cheesy Louis felt his pulse speed up. 

“So,” Louis said, checking the assignment sheet, “We’re supposed to write about our families, right? Do bios for each one, like some _Finding Your Roots_ type shit.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his brow furrowing and his lower lip sticking out. Louis had already noticed that this was Harry’s thinking face and it made Harry even cuter. Really, when he wasn’t so busy looking like a chastened version of E.T. he wasn’t half-bad looking. Harry got up and sat down next to Louis on the bed. “Louis, how do you say ‘father’ in Spanish? Can you help me?” He looked up at Louis from under his eyelashes.

Louis laughed, shaking his head. “No way, Styles. No way you’re that hopeless at Spanish. Come on.”

“Don’t test me,” Harry said, grinning.

“Oh, I have no doubt you’d fail a test,” Louis said, rolling his eyes.

“Hey!” Harry said, shoving him lightly. 

Louis shoved him back. “How do you say ‘father,’ Harold?” This was something he had used to do in primary school—make up nicknames for people he really liked.

“I think I asked you first. Wait, hold on, I’m concentrating,” Harry said, his eyes closed.

“You’re concentrating? You’re taking the piss, is what you’re doing,” Louis said, reaching forward and tickling Harry’s waist. 

Harry’s eyes flew open, and Louis realized that he had never, ever met someone whose eyes were that exact shade of green. They were like the ocean, or maybe not the real ocean but the version you always saw in movies, and all at once Louis realized how implausible Harry was, how crazy it was that a real, Harry-Styles-shaped person who was so considerate of floors and pencils and watched him play football like a preteen girl and muttered his way through conversations only to break out into bold, mischievous grins could ever exist. 

“Oh, you’re going to regret that,” Harry said, and then he was straddling Louis, tickling every bit of him he could reach. 

“Ha! Little did you know, I’m not—“ Louis started, and then broke off as Harry reached the backs of his knees and he collapsed backwards on the bed, shaking from laughter.

“Ok,” Louis gasped, “uncle!”

“No, it’s Harry,” Harry said, sitting back so that the crotch of his jeans was pressing right on Louis’ dick. Louis sucked in a breath, pretending that what he was feeling was just an after-effect of the laughter.

“Come on, Styles, quit messing around. How do you say ‘father?’” Louis asked, because he was losing control suddenly, and he had always thought it was a metaphor but his stomach really had fucking _butterflies_ in it right now.

Harry gazed at him steadily, not looking at the ground or up-talking or doing anything that Louis had grown to associate with Harry. “ _Daddy_ ,” Harry breathed, his eyes bright, his voice lower than Louis had ever heard it, and he bent to kiss him. 

Harry’s lips were soft against his, even softer than Louis had imagined, because he had imagined it if he were honest with himself. These dry, chaste kisses were just making Louis want more, driving him crazy until finally he pushed his tongue into Harry’s mouth, tangling it with Harry’s. Harry drew back, sucking on Louis’ tongue all the way until his lips were just closed around the tip, and Louis’ cock throbbed. “God,” he breathed.

“Still just Harry,” Harry said, his eyes crinkling, and Louis couldn’t believe that he was so attracted to someone who had the sense of humor of a five-year-old.

Clothes started coming off then, Harry’s short nails scratching at Louis’ sides in his desperation to remove Louis’ tight white t-shirt, and of course Harry was wearing a button-down, but finally they were both bare-chested, and Louis’ lips were ghosting across Harry’s collarbone when Harry suddenly looked down at him, eyes bright. “Wanna try something, Lou,” he breathed. “Wanna make you happy.”

Louis breathed something affirmative—he couldn’t even concentrate on which words were coming out of his mouth anymore—and settled back as Harry took his nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue across it before attending to the other one. It took Louis a moment to realize that the small purrs and “uh”s of pleasure he heard were coming from his own mouth.

Harry had made his way down Louis’ torso almost before his brain could keep track of what was happening, and now his teeth were tugging gently at the waistband of Louis’ boxer briefs and Louis was already spreading his legs apart to allow him better access. Harry was palming him through his underwear and sucking hickeys into Louis’ inner thighs and paused only to look up and say, “Can I...?” 

Louis nodded weakly, afraid to speak because whatever came out of his mouth would sound too desperate. He was so close already, his cock leaking while begging for pressure and friction and Harry slid his underwear off and began licking around the tip, teasing him, licking stripes down his shaft while playing with his balls until Louis wanted to grab Harry by the hair and make him follow through but trapped his curled fingers under his back instead. Finally, Harry took Louis into his mouth and made eye contact, and, _fuck_ , Louis knew it was too soon but this was so far past anything that his girlfriend had ever done to him last year.

And then someone was shouting, “Louis, wake up! Did you forget to set your alarm? You have ten minutes to get ready and drive us to school!”

Louis rolled over and opened his eyes, cringing at the brightness. Lottie was standing over him, evidently having thrown all of his curtains open in her quest to wake him up. He didn’t care about getting himself to school on time, but driving the girls was his responsibility. He had almost fucked it all up by forgetting to set his alarm after coming back from his stupid, selfish night with Stan when enough was already fucked up for them. He sat bolt upright, throwing his covers off and noticing as he shifted that there was something sticky… _a lot of something sticky_. Fuck. 

Lottie started snickering. “Louis, did you wet the bed?”

“Yes,” Louis said, trying to sound appropriately embarrassed while breathing an internal sigh of relief, thanking God that Lottie had no idea what had actually happened. “Yeah…I guess. I don’t know what happened.” 

He had always been a shitty liar, especially to his sisters, but Lottie seemed satisfied and skipped off yelling, “Fizzy! Louis wet the bed and he doesn’t want anyone to know!”

Louis ran to the bathroom as soon as she was gone and ran himself the coldest shower anyone had ever had, trying to wash as much of himself as he could in under three minutes. _Fuck, what was that?_ he thought, telling himself that he should have known it was a dream because there was no way he’d be that smooth with a boy first time off and besides Harry would probably have better dirty talk than Louis’ boring-ass mind could make up for him, and then he caught himself and reminded himself that he wasn’t even gay. He had dated Eleanor for two years before they broke up this spring, and that wasn’t because he didn’t like her as a girl. These kinds of things had to happen all the time, right? Other people had to have sex dreams about their socially awkward Spanish partners. _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ He never wanted to see Harry again, much less every day in Spanish. Much less today. 

And that was all the time he had to think. He shoved some clothes on, messed up his damp hair with one hand until he hoped it looked good, and gave his teeth a quick cursory brush. All that took nine minutes. He looked horrible, no doubt, but he was still on time.

He ran into the kitchen to find the four girls seated at the kitchen table. Lottie went to secondary with him, but the primary school didn’t start until eight. Louis had to drop them all off now anyway because Jay was already at work and Mark nowhere to be found. “Everybody got lunch from the fridge?” Louis barked like a drill sergeant.

They all held up their lunches, Lottie rolling her eyes because she was turning into a teenager two years before her time. 

“Okay, let’s go.” Louis checked his cell phone. They would still be cutting it close, but if he dropped Lottie off first at least she’d be on time. Mark’s car still wasn’t in the driveway, he noticed— _not still sleeping, then_ —and he hoped that the girls were still too sleepy to assess that kind of thing. Nothing about this entire day was going to be good, but he kept his face calm and focused on backing out of the drive.

When he pulled up to the secondary school and gestured for Lottie to get out, she just looked at him. “Are you not coming?” she said uncertainly.

“Of course I’m coming,” Louis said. “You’re early right now. Run in and I’ll be there after I drop off Fizzy and the twins, ok? Pinky promise.”

Lottie was almost too old for pinky promises to be unbreakable agreements, but she took Louis’ pinky with her own and nodded anyway before grabbing her backpack and running toward the school. 

When he got to the primary school, Daisy and Phoebe hopped out immediately and ran to the door, eager for another day of finger-painting and learning the letters “j” through “m,” or whatever they were doing now. Louis always got a little palpitation in those ten seconds between when he dropped them off at the door and when they actually entered the school, as if something horrible might befall his Daisy and his Phoebe on the walkway. He was so focused on watching the twins go that he almost didn’t notice that Fizzy hadn’t left the car yet.

“This is your stop, Fizz,” Louis said lightly.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Fizzy said, biting her thumbnail. 

“I’m coming back to collect you at three,” Louis said. 

“No, I mean…Mum and Dad are getting divorced, aren’t they?”

Louis sighed and massaged his temples. This was the last thing he needed right now, especially since he was already running late for school, but he couldn’t refuse to answer. “I don’t know, Fizz. Maybe? But they both still love you, and they wouldn’t want you to be worrying. For now, just don’t borrow any trouble. We can talk about it more when we get home this afternoon, alright?” he said, reaching into the backseat to rumple her hair.

Fizzy’s brow was still furrowed, and she shifted in her seat like she had something else on her mind. She finally blurted, “But Billy says that when your parents get divorced the kids go to whoever they each belong to. What if I have to go with Dad and you have to go with Mum?”

Leaving aside exactly who Billy was, Louis shook his head. “That’s not how it works. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen and what’s not, because I don’t know, but that is absolutely not how it would work, because I’d get to decide where I go, and I’d choose you lot. I always would. No matter what, you’re stuck with me. I can promise that.”

Fizzy let out a huge breath, ballooning her cheeks, and climbed out of the car with a “Thanks, Lou.” Louis felt like his heart was going to burst as he drove back to the secondary school. All the shit that was going wrong, and Fizzy was worried that she wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. 

He joined the tardy pass line outside the main office—the front door was the only one open at this time—and scrolled through his Twitter feed absently before looking up and seeing a horribly familiar mess of dark, curly hair and lanky frame in front of him. “Shit,” Louis muttered involuntarily. That was _just_ what he needed. He wasn’t sure what he had done to accrue this much bad luck in twenty-four hours. 

Harry turned around at the sound of his voice and said, “Hey, Lou!” _Who looks that delighted that someone just said “Shit?”_

“Hi,” Louis said tersely. _Is this the first time he’s called me Lou? Has to be, right? He called me Lou in that dream…fuck, you fucking idiot, don’t think about the dream right now. Play it cool. He’s not interested in you, and you’re not interested in him because you are straight as a nail. It was a one-off dream, you stupid fucking moron._

“Any exciting story for why you’re late?” Harry said, still chipper, and Louis wondered why Harry was so happy to see him before realizing that yesterday had been the first civil interaction they’d ever had. Louis had been a dick to him for two weeks, and the moment he did something as small as cover for him in Spanish Harry was suddenly the friendliest, least reticent person Louis had ever met.

“No,” Louis said, hardly wanting to explain about Fizzy or Mark not coming back last night or the reason why he had overslept in the first place. He wanted nothing more than for Harry to turn back around and stop talking. The problem—well, there were many problems right now—one problem was that when Louis felt awkward he was so fair-skinned that the tips of his ears turned red without his noticing, and he hardly wanted Harry to see that and wonder what was going on.

“Just wondering. Me, Gemma—that’s my sister—got mad because the barista messed up her coffee order and spent ten minutes demanding her money back and then the barista started flirting with her and gave her money back and a free coffee, but by then we were late. Happens all the time with Gem, guys just throw stuff at her.” 

_Harry is so fucking awkward, babbling on like that_ , Louis thought, shaking his head. _I can’t believe_ — He cut himself off before he could finish the thought. That was that. Everything was going to lead back to this fucking dream, and it was worse now because he could see that Harry would be the type of person to make those stupid “Just Harry” jokes in bed, not that Louis was even thinking about what Harry was like in bed because he was _not_ gay, for fuck’s sake. 

“Don’t you have any friends you can tell this to?” Louis snapped.

Harry flinched as if he had been slapped. He was looking down at the ground again now, and Louis felt like he had just beaten a golden retriever puppy to death, but he didn’t know how to take it back. 

“Sorry to bother you,” Harry said, and just like that he was back to his quiet mumble, and Louis wanted to scream.

***

Louis exhaled audibly as the bell rang for the end of school. It was Friday, which meant no practice but a game at seven. He had managed to survive the worst Spanish class ever—Harry wasn’t talking at all in English and had seemingly forgotten how to conjugate verbs when forced to talk to Louis in Spanish. Now all he had to do was go pick up the girls and hope that Dad— _Mark,_ he reminded himself—would come home after work. Lovely.

“Mr. Tomlinson?” his calculus teacher called, brandishing Louis’ last problem set. “A word?”

Louis groaned, ran one hand through his hair, and walked to Ms. Channing’s desk as the rest of the class filed out of the room.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to sound as polite as possible.

“I’m very concerned about your performance on this homework,” Ms. Channing said, handing it to him.

Louis took it, scanning the mess of red lines and question marks, page after page, until he got to his final score—4/10. “Me, too,” he said.

“I’ve talked to your pre-calculus teacher, and she said you were one of her strongest students. The thing is, you seem to set every problem up correctly, and then it’s as though you get distracted in the middle and make a careless mistake that renders the rest of the problem incorrect. You took the derivative of a constant in at least five of your assigned problems.”

_Aren’t teachers supposed to pretend they don’t talk about you?_ Louis wondered, and sighed. He didn’t want to explain that he had been trying to do the problem set while his parents were screaming at each other so loudly that he could hear it through his headphones. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Erm, I’ll put more effort in next time.”

Ms. Channing eyed him. “Everything alright, Louis?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not pleased with my work, but I’ll try to improve,” Louis said as though he were reading off a card.

His teacher sighed. “Have a good weekend.”

“You too, Ms. Channing,” Louis said, picking up his backpack and stuffing the problem set into the front pocket. Lottie would already be waiting for him, and he hadn’t thought to send her a text saying she’d be late. He pulled out his phone, but a text was already waiting for him.

_Take the girls somewhere after school just got off the phone with Mark and I’m a bit of a mess right now but nothing to worry about xx Mum_

Louis rolled his eyes as he texted Lottie that he was running late. How was “ _nothing to worry about xx Mum_ ” supposed to make him not worry? He couldn’t very well take them for ice cream again…or could he? Well, this meant Dad—Mark—probably wasn’t coming home. 

He dashed into the hallway, trying to make up for the time he had lost. Just in time, he noticed a stray notebook lying on the floor in front of his locker where he could have easily slipped on it, and kicked it out of his way angrily. He was fiddling with his combination lock, not hitting the right numbers in his haste, when he heard a slow, horribly familiar voice say, “That’s my notebook, you know.”

Louis had just about had it. Nothing was going right and the last thing he needed was Harry fucking Styles stalking him around the school, making him feel even more uncertain about everything. “What is the matter with you?” Louis yelled, picking up the notebook and throwing it to the floor again.

“Nothing? I…I need my notebook?” He was doing that stupid shy up-talking thing again that was also kind of cute except _not cute at all Louis fucking stop it_. 

“No, I really want to know why you’ve been stalking me around the school since the day you got here!” Louis shouted, losing his temper. He was sick of holding everything in, sick of not wanting to freak Harry out or induce his teacher’s pity or scare his little sisters or disappoint his mum. 

“I’m not stalking you,” Harry said quietly, looking upset. “I watched your football practice _once_ …okay, maybe twice…three times, but it was because I was waiting for my sister.”

“That’s the weakest excuse I’ve ever heard! Seriously, Styles, why the fuck is it that no matter how late I walk in or when I leave or when I have practice or when I skip class, you’re always there? It’s like you’re in love with me!” He finally managed to make himself stop talking, but there was no way he could take back what he had just said. He was disgusted with himself. Why couldn’t he yell at Mark or his mum or even the school counselor, whose job it was to listen to fucked-up kids like him? Why did he have to take it out on someone who really had done nothing to him? Why did he always yell at the wrong person?

Something in Harry’s face changed. Louis knew that he had hit a nerve but didn’t really understand why until he realized that his disgust had shown on his face and had been interpreted quite differently. Harry spoke, and he didn’t look nervous at all now. “No fucking way,” he hissed, prodding Louis in the chest. “Yes, Louis, no fucking way is this going to happen again. I am sick to death of people like you thinking that you know what I’m about, like I’m this scared little gay boy and no matter what you do to me I’ll just take it. Well, I’m done taking it. I’m not in love with you, for your information, and I have never seen so clearly what you’re really like, and if you mess with me or my notebook one more time, don’t expect me to start crying and run home to my mum.” Harry had a fistful of Louis’ shirt in his hands now—Louis had never realized how strong Harry was—and his green eyes were alight.

“No,” Louis stammered, brain still stuck on the phrase _scared little gay boy_ when he really needed it to be working double-time right now. “No, that was…I’ve had a really hard day…I didn’t mean it. I’m not disgusted by you, I swear. I’m disgusted by me.”

“Sure, that seems really likely,” Harry said sarcastically, still holding onto him, and suddenly Louis was struck by the insane urge to kiss him because he was so close and something about Harry suddenly not being gentle electrified every vein and artery in his body.

“Get off of me,” Louis said desperately, pushing Harry away and knowing that wasn’t what he should say or what he should do.

“Yeah, there it is,” Harry said, pushing him back so that Louis slammed into the locker. “That doesn’t really sound like you’re disgusted with yourself. That sounds like you can’t even be near me for a minute without being terrified that my gayness will just rub off on you, because that’s totally how these things work. Well, here I am.” His face was so close now, his nose inches away from Louis’. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Louis? Am I?”

“Yes,” Louis breathed, closing his eyes. He could hear how much his voice shook, knew that that one word had just revealed everything, or at least a lot more than he had wanted to reveal, and could feel that Harry’s face was no longer so close to his own.

He opened his eyes unwillingly and saw Harry staring at him from a foot away, his eyebrows still gathered angrily but his mouth slightly open as if he had been frozen that way. 

Louis sucked in a huge breath and started talking. “I told you, I’m not disgusted with you; I’m disgusted with myself. I’m so sorry for everything. I’ve been having a really hard day. I swear I’m not being…like, mean to you on purpose. I didn’t know you were gay, or I never would have said what I said. It just kind of slipped out because I’m an awful person in general. If that makes any sense.” 

Louis could feel that he was blabbering, but Harry didn’t look angry anymore. He was nodding, and Louis could tell that he really believed him this time. “Okay,” Harry said. “I’m sorry.”

Louis gaped at him. “No, don’t be sorry, I was still an ass to you. _I’m_ sorry.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “It’s ok. Neither one of us acted our best just there. I’ll see you tomorrow to work on our project, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, taking a moment to let his breathing slow, still leaning against the locker.

Harry turned and walked down the hall, then stopped and said, “Fuck.”

“What?” Louis said.

“Louis, I’m an awful person too. Now that that’s out of the way, can I ask you a question?” Harry said, coming back toward him.

“Yeah,” Louis said automatically, and then realized that he knew what Harry was going to ask and regretted it deeply.

“If you’re not freaked out—“ Harry broke off, realizing that he was still calling down the hallway “—about, you know, me, then why did I make you so uncomfortable?”

Louis chewed his lip, considering his answer as Harry reached him. “Um, I—um—I was just, well, you see, your hands, you have this way that you pick up your pencil normally, or like, anything really, where you’re just gentle with it, like you don’t want to leave a mark on it. Like you just want to be careful. And then, right there, you weren’t careful, but you don’t need to be careful all the time, is the thing. I haven’t been seeing _you_ this whole time, because it’s like you’ve been being careful with your entire personality and the way you are, and not just your hands. I don’t want you to feel like you need to be that way. If you want to be gentle sometimes, that’s fine, but if you need to yell at me, or say how fed up you are with how people have treated you, you should do that. You should be the way you really are.” He stopped as he realized that he hadn’t answered the question at all.

Harry was staring at him unabashedly as if he’d never seen anything quite like Louis, most likely because he’d never had anyone monologue at him about his hands before. He stepped forward, and the look in his eyes changed from generalized wonder to a very specific question. Louis finally, _finally_ caught on in a timely fashion, and he gave a tiny nod. Harry covered the distance between them instantly. His legs really were very long. As Louis reached forward for Harry’s waist, Harry bent his head, whispered, “I will,” in Louis’ ear, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! To give credit where credit is due, when Mr. Bowman calls Louis "Spicoli" it's a reference to _Fast Times At Ridgemont High_ , a movie I have never actually seen but thought someone of Mr. Bowman's generation might reference. Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Lumiere Over Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis try to work on their Spanish project but get distracted, and five days later Harry’s doorbell rings in the dead of night. Basically, if you like glances rife with sexual tension, jokes about Harry’s nipples, light smut, very brief High School Musical references, lots of emotions, cuddling, or any of the above, you will probably enjoy this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from Ed Sheeran’s brilliant song “Tenerife Sea,” which was the MVP of my writing playlist that helped me finish this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Louis

Louis looked around his room and sighed. He was in his pants still, the creases of his elbows and backs of his ears damp from the hot shower he had taken after his morning workout, and half his closet was strewn on his floor around him. Louis had always liked to dress nicely and look put-together—before the past few months increasingly made his outfit the last thing on his mind, at least—but today was a little different. 

There was only one question on Louis’ mind: _How am I supposed to dress for doing a Spanish project with a boy I just snogged yesterday?_ He couldn’t figure it out. Everything in his closet either seemed to say _let’s just work on this project because I’m not interested anymore_ or _good job on the kissing, Harry, because I’m definitely gay now,_ neither one of which Louis was feeling. He wasn’t sure how he was feeling, but he knew that pressed against the locker, Harry’s elbow braced beside his head and his hand playing with Louis’ hair, tugging him closer, he had felt something he had never felt when he had kissed Eleanor. He had felt like he was out of control, and all he had wanted was _more_. When he had finally pulled back, Harry’s lips had been swollen. His eyes, when they flew open, had been soft and slightly unfocused, but what Louis had liked best was Harry’s chin, shiny and red from Louis’ stubble. The fact that he had left a mark on Harry, no matter how quickly it would fade, excited him more than he cared to admit. He hadn’t said any of that to Harry, of course. 

What he had said first was, “Shit, my sister’s waiting for me,” wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Okay,” Harry had said, and Louis realized that Harry was just being lovely as usual and Louis had just totally fucked it up again and _like who thinks of their sister first thing after snogging, anyway_? 

“No, no, no,” Louis said. “I’m sorry, I’m really shit at this. That was nice. That was really nice. I do need to go pick up my sister, but I want to make sure you know how, um, nice that was.”

Harry grinned then, a small, dreamy smile. “Yeah,” he said. “It was nice, wasn’t it?” and Louis couldn’t resist that for some reason and kissed Harry again before saying, “Okay, now I _really_ need to go,” and running down the hall and looking back to see Harry grinning like an idiot after him. 

And now here Louis was in his room, twenty-five minutes before he was supposed to be at Harry’s door, standing in his pants. He cast another hopeless gaze around his floor and the clothes piled on it, knowing that in reality none of his outfits made a definitive statement about the kiss. That would have to be his job at some point. The only outfit that was absolutely out of the question was the one he was currently wearing, which consisted of orange boxer-briefs and nothing else. Nevertheless, it was only when he was really in danger of being late altogether that he haphazardly threw on a pair of shorts, t-shirt, hoodie, and Vans, grabbed his keys and his backpack, and ran out the door.

Pulling up to Harry’s house, Louis noticed that it was larger than his, but not in a _this-will-turn-into-a-Nicholas-Sparks-novel_ sort of way. Not that this would turn into a Nicholas Sparks novel anyway, because Harry had probably forgotten all about their kiss by now. Louis had spent his Friday night getting drunk with his team after their win—it had been difficult to get up and work out this morning—but he could only imagine what Harry had been doing. He had imagined it quite a lot, actually, and every single one of his fantasies involved Harry making out with increasingly good-looking boys, his chin red from _their_ stubble, because all of the boys he imagined Harry kissing somehow had stubble, and all of them looked better with it than Louis did. He had no idea where Harry would even find boys to make out with around here, but sensed that he might have known if he had been interested in kissing boys for more than the past 48 hours. Then again, he wasn’t even sure if he was interested in kissing boys. He was maybe only interested in kissing Harry.

And this was the last thought in his head before he knocked on the door. Harry answered it immediately, like he had been loitering around the door waiting for Louis’ arrival. It hit Louis again how much of a dork Harry was, and that realization felt like stepping outside on a sunny day. 

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed, and then ran a hand through his hair until a few locks of curls were sticking up and said, “I mean, hey.” He stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans like someone auditioning for the role of ‘casual person.’

“Hi,” Louis said, grinning. Harry was blocking the entire doorway, but he didn’t mind because that meant that Louis had an excuse to look at him. 

“Haz, let your poor guest come in,” someone called from inside. “Your lanky arse is blocking the door.”

Harry looked behind him to the voice, said, “Oh!” and moved aside, gesturing Louis inside theatrically. 

“Your house is lovely,” Louis said politely, as he had been trained, although it really was exceptionally well decorated considering they had moved in so recently. The girl who had told Harry to move out of the way was sitting at the counter in leggings and a tank top, eating a packet of crisps. She raised a hand in welcome and said, “Hey, I’m Gemma, this one’s sister.”

“I’m Louis.”

“Ah, _you’re_ Louis,” Gemma said. 

“Gem,” Harry said, and Louis had never heard the threat of death in Harry’s voice until that moment.

“Never heard of you. Nice to meet you,” Gemma said innocently, and exchanged a long look with Harry. Louis could only imagine Harry’s face, but Gemma seemed to be growing more amused by the second.

“Do you want anything to drink or eat?” Harry asked.

"Maybe some water," Louis said. "Thanks."

As Harry filled a glass for him, Louis said, "So what have we got to do for this project, anyway? It's four questions, right?"

"Like my nipples!" Harry said instantly as he turned away from the sink, then looked furious with himself as Gemma burst out laughing, choking slightly on the last of her crisps. 

"Excuse me?" Louis said.

Harry was preoccupied with turning scarlet, so Gemma caught her breath and answered, "This one's got four nipples and he had a phase—which I thought was over, Haz—where he wouldn't stop telling people about it whenever someone brought up the number four. We had to stop buying four-packs of things from Tesco because he was embarrassing us in front of company."

"You're embarrassing me in front of company right now," Harry pointed out.

"You embarrassed yourself in front of company, darling," Gemma said lazily, picking up her phone to answer a text. "I just explained so you’d look a bit less mental."

"You have four nipples?" Louis said. "I don't believe you."

"Believe it," Harry said smugly, suddenly proud now that it was out in the open.

"Bullshit, let me see," Louis demanded, just as he would have with Stan or Oli or Liam, before realizing this was probably not appropriate banter for his first time over someone's house.

"Are you asking me to undress for you, Lou?" Harry asked, eyes gleaming.

"While I'm watching, too?" Gemma added, getting the same gleam, and Louis could suddenly see the family resemblance. "I mean, it's nothing I've not seen before, but still, kinky."

Louis had the distinct feeling that Harry and Gemma were barely restraining themselves from slapping each other high fives, suddenly united in taking the piss out of him. "Well, I must say, if this is how all guests are treated at the Styles household, I find it disgraceful," Louis said haughtily in the best posh accent he could muster.

"Just messing around," Harry said. He turned to Louis so that Gemma couldn’t see his face, and then, one eyebrow arched and eyes burning through Louis, added, "You might get a look later if you're lucky." 

Louis swallowed hard, hoping no one would expect him to say anything anytime soon. At least it sounded like Harry remembered what had happened yesterday in the hall. _Come on, Lou. Bounce back. Act cool._ He couldn’t reconcile this Harry who could throw him a single devastating glance and make him lose his breath with the Harry who had just opened the door within milliseconds of his knock looking like a puppy about to go for a walk.

"And with that, I'm done," Gemma said. "Tom's expecting me over anyway."

"Tom, your new boyfriend?" Harry said. "I still don't understand how you get boyfriends so quickly. We’ve been here—what? Two weeks, three?"

“I don’t go around telling people how many nipples I’ve got,” Gemma answered. “Keeps the mystery alive, young Harry.”

“My techniques work just fine, thanks,” Harry said indignantly.

“Yeah, I bet they do, that’s why you’ve only ever been with Z—“ Gemma broke off quickly, like she had crossed a line in a conversation where there didn’t seem to be many lines. 

“Anyway,” Harry said as if he hadn’t heard, although Louis was sure that his smile had dropped for just a minute, “I was going to guess that it was your sparkling personality that brings all the boys to the yard.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t got anything handy to throw at you,” Gemma said, opening the door, “but later I might. Lovely to meet you, Louis.”

“You, too,” Louis said, and then he and Harry were alone. 

“So, this project?” Harry said immediately, and Louis realized that he might have been just as nervous about being alone together as Louis was. He could have gotten whiplash from how quickly Harry had switched back to standing awkwardly and examining the floor, but Louis was in no mood to complain. At least he could breathe around this version—he was sure that “You might get a look later” Harry had nearly killed him.

“Yes,” Louis said, moistening his lips with his tongue and downing the last of the water Harry had gotten him. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

“Where do you want to work on it? I was thinking my room, only because my mum and Robin will be home at some point this afternoon and I figured we might want some quiet to work, but if you don’t want to work in my room, that’s also fine, because we have a very nice dining room.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up,” Louis said, grinning. “Your room is fine.”

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Listen,” Louis said, and then paused, trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say, because nothing ever came out of his mouth correctly.

“What?”

“Do you want to talk, erm, about anything?” _Great work, Louis. You should go into PR_.

“Me? No. What would I want to talk about?” Harry said, and as if that weren’t bad enough, answered his own question. “Nothing. Just Spanish.”

“Right,” Louis said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Perfect, because that’s also all I wanted to talk about.”

“Great,” Harry said tensely, and they went upstairs. 

Louis groaned internally as he looked over the questions. He had skimmed them the night before, but he realized now that all of them were fairly detailed. The first one asked him to describe his mother using at least five adjectives and explain his choices. The second was the same, except for his father. The third asked about siblings, what Louis did for fun, and if he did it with his siblings. The last asked Louis to describe how he viewed his place in his family using four vocabulary words.

Louis didn’t want to answer any of these questions. He never wanted to think about his family again, not after he had gotten up to pee in the middle of the night and heard a strange noise coming from his mum’s room. He had crept to her door and pressed his ear against it, and only then did he realize that the sound was muffled sobbing. She was crying into her pillow as quietly as possible so that she wouldn’t wake any of her children, and Louis wouldn’t have even known if he hadn’t drunk so much water before bed.

“Lou, what’s up?” Harry said, touching his arm. “You look like your goldfish died, mate.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Louis said. “Let’s just figure this out. It’s an oral project, right?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, scanning the paper. “Looks like we just have to present to the class whilst having a conversation about our families and working in all the questions.”

Louis stared at him. “You just read that?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, looking confused for a minute, and then understanding. “Lou, I’m not stupid, I just get nervous when I have to listen or talk. I get so focused on whether I’m getting it right or wrong that it always ends up being wrong. With reading, the pressure’s off.”

“Well, Harold, I don’t know how to break this to you, but listening and talking are kind of the whole project.”

“What did you just call me?”

_Shit._ “I called you Harold,” Louis said. He could hardly explain that he gave pet names to people he really liked, and Harry counted. Harry, save for that bizarre moment of intense flirting in the kitchen, seemed perfectly content to pretend their kiss had never happened. There was also the small fact that Louis had given that particular nickname to Harry while dreaming about hooking up with him.

“Harold,” Harry repeated slowly. “Hm, I like it.”

Louis had never been so grateful that Harry was one of the few people out of everyone he had ever met who didn’t have to question everything. They both loosened up a little as they started talking about the project, taking notes about how the conversation might go. Louis managed to get away with one-sentence, generic answers about how his mum was very caring and his dad still had all his hair, whereas Harry embarked upon long, rambling stories about his mum, Gemma, and Robin, Harry’s soon-to-be-stepdad. Harry had to be the most verbose storyteller Louis had ever heard. As he finished off a detailed one about Robin driving thirty minutes just to take him and Gemma to Definitively The Best Ice Cream Place Robin Had Ever Discovered, Louis realized that Harry’s stories, particularly that one, sometimes never even really had a point. As Harry launched into the one about how his mum and Robin met, which actually did have the payoff that they got engaged two years later, Louis realized that he didn’t much care what the point was. He just wanted Harry to keep telling every story that might pop into his mind. He would have listened till the end of time. 

“Now say it in Spanish,” Louis said finally, when they were both lying on Harry’s bed facing each other, Louis exhausted by the sheer length of Harry’s stories and Harry exhausted by the endurance it took to tell them. 

“I can’t say all that in Spanish, Lou; are you crazy?” Harry said, and Louis thrilled at how raspy his voice was. “Anyway, you have to tell me a story about your family now. I’ve been a story hog.”

“There’s no such thing as a story hog,” Louis said, and was a little ashamed that he actually giggled.

“Gemma says there is. She says I am one.”

“Gemma’s lying to you,” Louis said, waggling his eyebrows. “No such thing, and your stories are great.”

“Still. Tell me a story about yours.”

So Louis told him the story of when they brought Daisy and Phoebe home from the hospital and Lottie had cried hysterically. It had taken Louis several minutes to figure out that one of the other first-year boys had told her that families weren’t allowed to have more than four children, and if they brought any more home the family had to pick their least favorite extras and leave them outside when night fell. Honestly, Louis wanted kids of his own someday, but sometimes they terrified him. And then he noticed that Harry was laughing so hard Louis could only describe it as guffawing.

“Alright?” Louis asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” Harry wheezed. “That—was—great. Leaving—outside—“ A few more giggles escaped, and Harry rolled onto his back, trying to compose himself, before rolling back to face Louis, his cheeks pink and his eyes streaming.

Louis stared over at him, half a smirk fixed on his face. He had been the class clown throughout primary school and still was, sometimes, so he knew he could be funny when he tried. Just then, he hadn’t been trying, yet Harry seemed to be in real danger of suffocating in his own laughter, and he was so _pretty_ doing so. 

It seemed like no time at all had gone by, but Louis was suddenly aware that Harry had stopped laughing and they had just been lying there staring at each other for a minute at least, which didn’t seem long at all but was an eternity when they were lying so still like that. “I…” Louis tried, but no words came out, and he—Tommo, who always had an answer for everyone—cursed his tongue for being so unwieldy when it really counted.

Harry nodded against his pillow. “Yeah,” he said softly, surely, as if Louis had finished his sentence.

So Louis shifted his weight onto Harry and kissed him, straddling him and pressing his hips down into Harry. Harry began to moan and squirm against him, the noises getting lost in Louis’ mouth, and then his mind caught up to what his body wanted and he began driving his hips rhythmically upward into Louis’, slowly, intentionally sloppy so that Louis felt the friction in sensation that shot all the way down his spine and made his stomach weightless, his cock fattening in his pants. Harry pulled back a fraction to suck on Louis’ bottom lip. Louis took the opportunity to wind his hands into Harry’s hair, twisting curls around his finger, and then tipped his head back to expose his neck as his lips traveled along his jaw and down to the pale skin beside his Adam’s apple. Beard burn didn’t last nearly long enough to satisfy him. He wanted to look at Harry and know, _yes, that was me, I was there_ , and he sucked harsh hickeys into Harry’s skin, Harry gasping and making low, short, satisfied noises in the back of his throat as Louis’ teeth scraped his skin. They had a regular rhythm going now, both of them hard from the friction of their clothes. 

“How about those four nipples?” Louis breathed, his lips right below the place where Harry’s jaw met his ear, and he lifted his head slightly to suck Harry’s earlobe and tease it with his tongue.

“Still…there….” Harry managed, his and Louis’ fingers meeting at the hem of his shirt. It was too close to call which of them was more eager for Harry to take his shirt off, and then it was off, and Louis sat back.

“Fuck,” he breathed. 

“What? I know it’s weird,” Harry said anxiously, trying to catch his breath. 

“No, not that,” Louis said, mouth still slightly agape, running his thumb absentmindedly over each of Harry’s nipples in turn as he tried to think of what to say. “You’re just, you’re just gorgeous.”

Harry flushed bright red, whether from Louis’ touch or his words or both Louis couldn’t say. “I’m not,” he protested quietly. “I’ve got love handles.”

“What you have is clearly defined abs and also hips—“ Louis bent down to ghost his lips down the line of Harry’s abs and then looked up, so close to Harry’s zipper and the bulge just to the side, and grinned “—which is a rare combination.”

“I don’t like my hips,” Harry said, frowning.

“You’ll probably grow out of them—pity, really—but for now, the better to hold onto,” Louis said, grinning wolfishly. “Besides, if you don’t like hips I’d best leave now.”

Harry sat up with him, their knees intertwined, and matched Louis’ grin. “Only one way to find out.”

“Find out what?” Louis said stupidly.

“Whether I like your hips,” Harry said, and he was sliding backwards so that he could bend himself into Louis’ lap, his hands taking off the t-shirt Louis had so hastily thrown on a few hours before while his mouth explored Louis’ waistline, his tongue tracing the portion of the V of Louis’ pelvic muscle that was accessible above his underwear. 

Louis sighed—rougher than a sigh, really, halfway between a sigh and a growl—flopped back so that his head was at the foot of Harry’s bed, and said, “Don’t tease, Harold.”

“Who says I’m teasing?” Harry said, letting his nose brush Louis’ hipbone as he looked up to answer and then running a finger inside the waistband of Louis’ underwear, holding the space open just enough to plant wet, sloppy kisses onto the uncharted parts of Louis’ skin.

Louis spread his legs apart as Harry slid his shorts off. With the ease of that motion, he had to wonder whether it was the first time Harry had done this (probably not), and then forgot everything as Harry began to stroke him through his boxer-briefs. His erection was tenting the fabric embarrassingly, but then he realized that he didn’t need to be embarrassed, that Harry understood exactly and had one of his own. Harry slid his mouth down the faint line of hair that started below his belly button and Louis almost stopped breathing, but then Harry found his inner thighs instead, kissing and licking and nipping softly. This was really not a great improvement vital-function-wise, but Louis wouldn’t have wanted him to stop for anything, even as he started feeling vaguely dizzy from lack of blood to just about any other part of his body. He couldn’t control the desperate, high, _please keep going_ noises that were escaping his lips.

And then they heard it, from downstairs. “Harry? Harry, we’re home, and we saw Mrs. Chapman at the grocery and invited her back for tea; come down and say hello.”

Harry gaped in horror and then started silently mouthing, “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” over and over. Louis found Harry’s shirt wedged underneath the sheets and threw it to him as Harry called, “Coming!” and Louis thought of so many jokes he could make but said none of them.

“I guess I was teasing?” Harry finally said in a strangled voice. He found a pair of roomy joggers in the corner of his room and put them on, adjusting himself until his crotch almost looked normal unless you really looked, which hopefully Mrs. Chapman, Robin, and his mum wouldn’t for a number of reasons. The sight of Harry adjusting himself, though it was something Louis had had to do countless times, was enough to make Louis want him back on the bed with him. _What the fuck is wrong with me? That’s not even sexy_. He was officially losing it.

“Who’s Mrs. Chapman?” Louis said, trying to get his mind working again.

“My teacher from year three,” Harry said, and Louis almost burst out laughing but remembered he was probably supposed to be quiet so that Harry’s mum didn’t come upstairs to check on them.

“Well, have fun with that. You’re rather sweaty for having worked on a school project all afternoon, eh?”

“I’m sure my mum and Robin will be dying to meet you,” Harry shot back. “I’ll make sure they know you’re here and can’t wait to say hello.”

“Argh, give me a few minutes to calm down, you devil,” Louis muttered, sitting up and trying to think of the least sexy things he could think of. “Better grab a hoodie,” he added to Harry, gesturing to the bright red patches on Harry’s neck that would soon bruise.

As Harry pulled a sweatshirt on with a nod of thanks, he said, “Ok, I’m going, but don’t leave me alone down there, Lou. Think about your grandmother for a few minutes, rearrange yourself, and come save me.” 

Louis heard him frantically splashing water on his face in the bathroom, and then Harry’s pounding feet on the stairs. He dutifully started thinking about his grandmother, wishing that Harry’s mum had just waited a few more minutes.

***

Harry

They had ended up mutually agreeing to do the work they were supposed to do on Saturday separately and reconvene on Thursday night to start practicing their presentation. Since then, Harry had been wondering what would happen after the project was over, because one of his great hobbies in life was borrowing trouble. The problem was that he still wasn’t sure where he was with Louis, who had gone from hating him and definitely not gay to, well, not hating him and definitely confusing in about two seconds. 

He wasn’t entirely unjustified in his worry. Louis had insisted that they practice at Harry’s house again, and Harry got a weird feeling from that, like maybe Louis was ashamed of him. It wasn’t as though Harry would say anything to Louis’ family about what they had done, so he didn’t understand why Louis would be so furtive.

On Wednesday afternoon, he was walking toward the parking lot, a little delayed from having to queue up to get his homework returned in his last class. He was just about to wait by the car for Gemma, who was probably saying her usual extended after-school goodbye to Tom, when he saw Louis and a couple of other guys from the football team heading toward him. They were carrying Gatorade from the grocery store across the street. 

Harry gave Louis a little half-wave. “Hey.” When he wasn’t sure how cool to play it, he always ended up erring on the side of pretty fucking awkward.

“Hey, Harold,” Louis said, and Harry grinned at the pet name and ducked his head like a dog scratched behind the ears. Louis stopped, his friends flanking him, and continued, “These are my mates from the team, Niall and Liam. Neil, Lima, this is my friend, Harry.”

Liam and Niall each raised a hand in greeting and said genial things, and Harry said something friendly back, keeping a smile on his face until they headed off to the pitch, but inside he was burning. _What did you expect?_ he told himself. _This is what you get for fooling around with straight boys. It’s not like you’re anything to him, anyway. Did you think you were the only one to get a nickname from him, you idiot? And what else could he have said? “Lads, this is the boy who almost sucked my dick this past weekend! Meet Harry Styles!”_

The word ‘friend’ still rankled with him, though. It was the casual way Louis had said it, like he hadn’t even needed to search for another word, and it brought back so many memories. _Fuck, Harry, you need to stop this now,_ he told himself. _Remember how it turned out with—_

A text vibrated in his pocket and he froze at the sender’s name. _They say speak of the devil,_ he thought wryly, knowing that Zayn wasn’t the devil, far from it. Maybe Harry had been the devil in their situation, if anyone had been. He opened the text and read: _miss you. take you up on that visit? Z_

Harry sighed. He _had_ promised Zayn that he could come visit anytime. Of course, at the time, they had just gotten back to being friends after everything that had happened between them when Harry had to move, and Harry’s promise had been more of a Hail Mary to try to salvage their tenuous friendship than anything else. But it would be nice to see him, not least because he needed advice from someone who really knew him, and no one knew him better than Zayn. 

_Ofc, would love to see you! Next weekend?_ Harry typed. He erased _‘would love,’_ replacing it with _‘would be great,’_ and sent the message.

_Great. me mum is fine w/it. work out details later_.

Harry locked his phone almost guiltily as Gemma came up to the car, her lips suspiciously red and swollen. No doubt she had just been with Tom. She, however, looked extremely satisfied with herself, which made the hint of furtiveness in Harry’s expression all the more noticeable. 

“What’s up?” she said, unlocking the car.

“Nothing. Just waiting for you,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure how people became better liars, but planned to stand in the mirror for several minutes tonight practicing on himself, because this was officially disgraceful. He wasn’t even sure why he was lying, since he’d have to run it by his mum when he got home.

“Bullshit. What are you scheming?”

“Not saying. Come on, Gem, just drive, please.”

“Are you going to _steal the Declaration of Independence_?” Gemma intoned, turning dramatically to face him.

Harry burst out laughing. “Are you going to drive?”

“We’re not going anywhere until you tell me, you know.” 

He knew from plentiful experience how stubborn Gemma could be. “Fine, it’s Zayn. He wants to come visit our new place, maybe stay over next weekend. I said that was fine.”

“You said that was fine? And how is your new boyfriend going to feel about that?” Gemma said, finally starting the car.

“Shut up. Number one, Louis’ not my boyfriend; number two, neither is Zayn, and he never was; number three, Louis doesn’t even know about Zayn; and number four, why would I tell him? We’re just _friends_ , apparently,” Harry said, the last point slipping out unintentionally.

“Oh, screw him,” Gemma said.

“And number five, how did you even know…?”

“God, Harry, you two were practically eye-fucking each other in the kitchen when you thought I couldn’t see you. He’s not been gay for long, though, yeah? He was doing more eye-experimental-thrusting.”

“You are so gross,” Harry said, wincing at the mental image. “Never, ever become a writer, _please_. Anyway, no, I don’t think he’s gay at all, but I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Fine.” Gemma dropped it, and they spent the rest of the ride in silence, Harry staring out the window and maybe sulking a little. He realized he was being a baby, that he shouldn’t have expected anything different, but he wanted to wallow just a bit longer.

One thing about wallowing, though, was that it made him much more productive. He finished all of his calculus and literature homework, and even answered the final question on his Spanish presentation. When his mum finally got home from work, he decided to play the long game, just to make sure she said yes to Zayn. He wasn’t sure how much she realized about what had gone on between them. He helped her unpack the groceries and start dinner. That wasn’t just to get on her good side; Harry had always loved cooking. Finally, when the spaghetti was boiling on the stove and Harry had a good eight to ten minutes with occasional stirring, he said, “Mum, would it be okay if Zayn came next weekend and stayed overnight?”

“Zayn?” His mum looked at him, forehead creased. “I mean, I’ve known Zayn since he was a little boy and I’d be happy to have him over, but are you sure? Things were pretty…strained between you two.”

“No, but we fixed everything before we left,” Harry said. “He’s already asked his mum, and it would just be really nice to see a friend from home, Mum. Our old home, I mean.”

Anne looked at him, and Harry knew she was considering just how few friends he had had at that school, how Zayn had stuck by him even through possibly one of the most terribly awkward situations that a friendship could face. “Sure,” she said. “Let me call Trish, but I’d like to see how Zayn is doing. It’s so nice that this house has a guest room.” 

Harry got the hint, loud and clear, even though he didn’t need it, and realized that, as always, his mum knew everything. “Thanks, mum,” he said, kissing her on the cheek, and then ducking around her to stir the pasta. That had been even easier than he had expected.

***

By ten-thirty, he was stretched out on the couch, still doing work. Robin had come home, and now he was with Harry’s mum up in their room, watching TV. Gemma was likewise in her room, “doing homework,” but probably talking to Tom. Harry wasn’t extrapolating much here. “Homework” was Gemma’s default answer for everything, to the point where he had once asked her whom she was texting and she had answered “homework” without looking up.

So Harry was the only one downstairs when there was a knock at the door. He chewed his lip for a moment, wondering whether he should answer it. He had been beaten over the head with stranger danger as a child, since he had been exceptionally friendly when he was little, and now paused before he even decided to go check the peephole.

What he saw when he checked the peephole after another, more insistent knock, was a fisheye-lens version of Louis Tomlinson’s face. Harry opened the door immediately. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“This isn’t the kind of Harry Styles welcome I’ve grown accustomed to,” Louis said, but the joke fell flat.

Harry really looked at him then, because in the few weeks he had known Louis, not _once_ had he ever failed to be funny. Sometimes Harry even laughed when Louis wasn’t trying to be funny—he could tell from the slight cock of Louis’ head and his smirk—but he couldn’t help it. Now, however, he could see that something was off in the other boy’s eyes. Something was desperate, needy there. Louis stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to smile.

“Well, this _is_ the Harry Styles welcome, evidently—me standing in the doorway, blocking you from getting in,” Harry said wryly. “Come on in. Just be quiet—I’m technically not supposed to have people over this late on school nights. Would you like, erm, a glass of water?” He was trying to figure out what the need in Louis’ eyes meant. He doubted it was dehydration, but it never hurt to check.

“No, Styles, I’m fine,” Louis said as he stepped into the house, Harry closing the door soundlessly behind him.

“Are you?” Harry looked around, trying to see if there was any place they could sit and talk. _Shit_. If his mum came downstairs to get a drink, or Gemma decided to go watch telly, or anyone made any movement out of any room, Harry would be in huge trouble. Each room led into the next one on the ground floor, and Louis would be pretty visible anywhere. _Unless…._

“Worried about getting in trouble with Mummy?” Louis said mockingly, and if this had been two weeks ago Harry would have shut down immediately, but now he knew that this meant that Louis was even less all right than he had thought. What he had realized on Saturday was that all of Louis’ nastiness and arrogance was a front. It was when he was talking about his sisters, when his face softened and he described how he had talked Lottie down after the twins came home from the hospital, that Harry had realized that he really wanted to kiss him again. Now all he wanted was more of the unguarded, sweet Louis, the Louis who had a little grin that he saved just for thinking about his sisters and the Louis who had let his mouth gape slightly open in wonder as he had told Harry he was gorgeous.

“Ok, don’t take this the wrong way, but we need to go up to my room or I’m going to be grounded from here into eternity,” Harry said in a low voice. “I don’t…it doesn’t mean…really, just, I’m not allowed to have guests this late, like I said.” 

“You really have the worst chat-up lines,” Louis said, shaking his head and following Harry upstairs. 

Harry didn’t bother to respond, because first of all, that was true, and second, he was the furthest he’d been from trying to get anywhere with Louis since they’d met. He was worried about him. Simply being in Louis’ presence right now was like being outside right before a thunderstorm. He could feel in his skin that something was off, but he just didn’t know what it was yet. 

Once they were in his room, he closed the door and turned to face Louis, but Louis had already thrown himself on Harry’s bed and was lying facedown in Harry’s pillow, spread-eagled.

“Are you, er, okay down there?” Harry said tentatively.

“Dandy,” came the muffled response from the pillow.

Harry finally thought to check his phone, asking, “Did I miss a text from you or something?”

“Erm, no, this was more of a spur-of-the-moment decision, actually,” Louis said, still in the pillow. 

Harry shifted over to the bed. “Come on, Lou. Turn over. I can listen, or just sit here and be with you, but you’re worrying me laying like that.”

Louis rolled slightly so that he was on his side and curled his legs up to his chest. “I need to talk. I just…don’t know where to start.”

“Um, also, are you sure I’m the best person to talk to?” Harry said, hating himself for bringing it up but not wanting Louis to say or do anything he’d regret later. He really couldn’t understand why Louis was here. Over the past few weeks, he’d realized that Louis was one of the most popular people in the school. Harry never saw him without a group of people clustered around him laughing at something he had just said. Surely he had better Wednesday night options than Harry’s twin-sized bed. Surely he had better, cooler friends if he needed a confidante, because Harry had to remind himself again that that was all he was—a _friend_.

Just thinking back to that moment in the parking lot rattled him, and he knew it was a bad idea to start talking again with thoughts like that floating around his head, but he did it anyway. “Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I love you—shit, not like that—oh, fuck—like, I like talking to you and I care about what you came over here to tell me, not like _love_ love—fuck—but we’ve really only known each other for a few weeks.” He lapsed into chagrined silence, staring up at the ceiling and glad he could turn away from Louis.

“Yeah, sad, innit?” Louis said to his back, and Harry turned to see a bitter smile twisted on his face. “I can’t talk to my family about it, and my close friends are all from the football team. We don’t talk about, like, real things. We drink together, and we talk about girls, and we play football, and that’s about it. We don’t share emotional shit unless it’s about a girl, and I’ve never felt anything strong enough about a girl to share, so that’s that.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend?” Harry asked, even though this clearly wasn’t the time to delve into the other boy’s past romantic history.

“I didn’t say that. Pay attention, Harold. Actually, I had a girlfriend for two years. Broke up this past spring.”

_Of course you did_. For now, Harry decided to leave aside how two years had elapsed and ended without Louis’ having any feelings strong enough to share with his team in that entire timespan. “I’m sure if you said you needed to talk, they would be there for you.”

“Not now, not really. The matches coming up will determine whether we make the tournament, and none of them will be really happy to hear that their captain is in crisis. They’ll be thinking I need to get my head in the game.”

“But your heart’s in the song?” Harry blurted, and immediately hated himself.

Louis turned slowly to face him with a look of utter disbelief, and then started laughing. He wasn’t faking it. He was belly laughing, his entire frame shaking, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Jesus H. Christ, you are the biggest dork I have ever met in my life. I’m in the middle of opening up to you, and you empathize with me through High School fucking Musical. You’re something else,” he said, beaming and shaking his head.

“What team?” Harry said softly, raising an eyebrow, trying to make that smile stay.

“Don’t push it, Harold,” Louis said, trying to frown sternly, his face still pink from laughter.

Harry waited.

“Fuck, okay. Wildcats,” Louis said resignedly, but his lips were working, trying to keep from breaking into another smile. “Happy now, Styles? Bet you get everything you want at Christmas, too. You’re lucky you’re cute and curly, or….” 

He trailed off, and Harry could tell from the look of surprise on Louis’ face that that wasn’t supposed to have come out of his mouth. 

“Anyway,” Harry said, saving him from embarrassment, “So you wanted to talk, and you chose me. I’m honored.”

“Yeah. So, um, the talking. I should probably do some of that talking now.” The smile dropped off his face.

Harry could see Louis’ eyes shoot briefly to the door as though he were contemplating escape, and he wondered just how bad whatever Louis was about to tell him could be. He stayed quiet, hands folded in his lap, so still that Louis could almost forget he was there, while Louis shifted around slightly on Harry’s pillow to get himself comfortable. He gave up eventually, no doubt realizing that it wasn’t Harry’s mattress that was making him restless.

“I guess,” Louis began, “you’ve probably been wondering why you can’t come over my house to work on the project.”

Harry shrugged, not wanting to mention that it was a cornerstone of his theory that Louis was secretly ashamed of Harry and everything he represented, a theory he was beginning to realize was not only paranoid but also incredibly self-centered. “Hadn’t really thought about it,” he lied.

“Well, erm. It’s like this. Normally I’d love for you to come over my house. You could meet my sisters; they’re great. You’d like them, and I think they’d love you, honestly. The thing is, my parents—well, my mum and my stepdad—are getting divorced, and it’s not pretty. Things around my house haven’t been so great. Things with me haven’t been so great. I’d never show up to school hung-over, or smoke weed in the bathroom, or anything like that normally. Like, there are some things you do with your mates that you don’t do anywhere else, right? I guess I just…I don’t…I need to escape, but I can’t leave. Do you understand?”

“I do.” Harry nodded slowly. He understood all too well the feeling of needing to escape but being trapped, having to get through the school day any way he could. At least Harry had gotten to move. He had gotten a free ticket out of his personal hell, an option that Louis didn’t seem to have. He wanted to say something comforting, but he was thinking about _I think they’d love you, honestly_. Louis was saying that the most important people in his life would love him…what did that mean? It didn’t sound casual. It sounded like Louis had thought about it, had imagined how Harry might get to know and get along with his family under different circumstances. _Stop overanalyzing. Louis needs you, and_ now, _not in a minute when you’re ready to stop entertaining fantasies of meeting his family and playing with his sisters together and maybe holding hands_ , Harry told himself sternly.

“You know I never judged you for that,” Harry said, trying to bring his mind away from the thought of he and Louis making lunch for Louis’ sisters. He had no idea what was wrong with him. When he fantasized, it was usually a little more sexual. He had never looked at a boy and thought, _Man, I just want to make so many sandwiches with him_.

“Do you ever judge anybody for anything?” Louis said.

“Yes,” Harry said honestly. “But I try not to.”

“Anyway, so that’s been going on, and tonight my dad—stepdad—finally moved out.”

“Oh, Lou,” Harry said. He had been trying to avoid getting close to Louis so that he wouldn’t make him uncomfortable, but the look on Louis’ face was more than he could stand. Harry could tell that Louis was gutted, but he didn’t show it. His face was blank, his expression almost spaced-out, his body so still and his hands lying limply on Harry’s sheets. Harry had to hold him, had to pull Louis into his chest to make sure he wouldn’t lose him. He wanted to share his vital functions with him, like maybe Louis could draw some kind of strength from feeling Harry’s heart beating into his back and the rise and fall of his ribcage.

“That’s not all.” Louis cleared his throat. “Erm, so he’s going to finish getting his stuff out in the next few days, but he sat us all down tonight to tell us what was going on, me and Lottie and Fizzy and Daisy and Phoebe. And he really told us _everything_ ,” Louis said bitterly. 

Harry didn’t get it yet, but he waited.

“He told all of us that he’d be moving into a flat with Susanna—his secretary—but that we should feel free to come visit anytime we wanted and he’d take us for dinner. He’d just _love_ for us all to meet her, see. And then Fizzy asked weren’t he and mum still married, and he said yes but they were already separated so it didn’t much matter, and then he grinned like some fucking weight had been lifted off his shoulders and left. He was _proud_ of himself, Harry. So fucking proud.”

“Didn’t you tell me your youngest sisters are five?” Harry said incredulously.

“Yes,” Louis said, and Harry could tell that he was barely controlling his temper. “They don’t even fucking understand subtraction yet, and he expects them to understand why he’s not in love with Mum anymore, why they’re getting divorced, and why he’s moving in with someone else even though he’s still technically married, all at the same time. Like, why the _fuck_ would you ever say that? And Fizzy’s only nine and Lottie’s eleven. None of them are old enough to really get this, but it’s still going to fuck them up. Why would he—I don’t understand—I should have got him to shut up somehow….“ He was kneading his forehead with his palms now. 

Harry glanced down at him and felt a rush of emotion. Part of it was sympathy and heartache; part of it was disgust at how anyone could deliver that kind of news to their children with a smile. But part of it was something else he couldn’t identify, something that he had never felt before. He felt like his heart was bursting, like his chest could split open, and all that would spill out would be light. He knew it was horribly inappropriate when Louis was feeling so much pain, but he couldn’t help it. Louis had just received what might be the worst news he would ever get in his life, and all he could think about was how it might affect the sisters he loved so much, and how his father (stepfather?) had ruined the innocence that Louis obviously tried so hard to protect.

“Hey, Lou. Hey,” he whispered softly, stroking Louis’ hair back from his face. “Listen to me. You couldn’t have done anything differently. That was really shitty of your stepdad, but you can’t beat yourself up about it. All you can do is take some time to deal with it yourself, and then help your sisters through it.”

“But they didn’t deserve that,” Louis moaned. “They can’t even begin to grasp—it’s only going to make them upset—why would he have done that? Why would I have let him?”

“People make errors in judgment all the time. A lot is changing for all of you right now, and no one makes the best decisions when everything’s up in the air. Either that, or he’s an absolute arse. Your sisters will be fine—more than fine—they still have your mum and you. And I don’t want to hear you blaming yourself just because you didn’t tackle your stepdad or something before he finished his sentence. You’re the best brother anyone could ever ask for. Don’t ever doubt that for a second.”

Louis was silent for a minute. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “He was like my dad, Harry. I called him Dad. He’s been there for me since I was Daisy and Phoebe’s age, and he’s been my role model. If he’s like this, really, what am I supposed to do? My biological dad walked out when I was two. I’ve got two shit dads now who don’t give a fuck about anyone, and I have no idea how to be a good man.”

Harry didn’t even know what to say. The fact that Louis could even say this, even _think_ it…it was as though he had just told Harry he couldn’t see himself in the mirror. “No, no, no. I don’t care what kind of dads you’ve got. You’re so lovely, and you care so much about everything, especially your family, and you’re just…great.” He took Louis’ hands and squeezed them tight in his.

“But I don’t know if that’s me or because I try!” Louis said, frustrated, as if he didn’t want Harry to tell him that he was a great person. “I try so hard, Harry. I’ve _been_ trying so hard.”

And then it all came out in a rush, how he had slowly taken over the lunch-making and driving and laundry and taking the girls out whenever his parents had a fight. His dad was around less and less often and his mum couldn’t handle as much as she normally did, which left him picking up all the slack, although of course Louis didn’t say that in so many words. By the time Louis finished, Harry had to remind himself to hold it together, to not cry because he had to be strong for him. He couldn’t fathom how Louis was finding time to do homework, play football, and still remember which of his sisters preferred strawberry over grape jam. 

“Lou, I’m trying so hard right now to imagine why you’d wonder what kind of man you’d be,” Harry said softly, failing to keep the fondness out of his voice, “when the answer’s right in front of you.”

Louis twisted around to look up at him. “You really think so?” he said.

“Yeah, course I do. The way you take care of them…you’re already this selfless, unbelievable person, and someday you’re going to make a great father. I’m not worried about that, and neither should you be. But you’re spending so much time taking care of them. Who’s taking care of _you_?”

“I take care of myself,” Louis said, like that should be obvious. “Mum needs me; the girls need me; I’m not going to sit around whinging. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“Why’d you come over here tonight, then?”

“I just needed to get out of the house, I suppose. I really….”

“Louis, I’m not asking you to admit weakness, I’m just...before I moved here, before we became friends, where would you have gone if something like this happened?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere by myself, probably.” 

“That’s what scares me,” Harry said, letting go of one of Louis’ hands to trace circles with his index finger into Louis’ upper arm. “You’re seventeen. You shouldn’t have to be holding it together for your mum and your sisters like this all the time. They’re not here. You’ve been talking about them this whole time, but I want to know how _you’re_ doing. I want to make sure you’re holding up okay, because I’ve got this horrible feeling that you ask your sisters how their day was every day, and no one ever asks you, or if they do, you don’t give them an honest answer. Please, just…please.”

Louis was silent, and Harry shifted position to look at him, trying to judge whether he’d speak anytime soon. And then he realized that tears were rolling down Louis’ cheeks without any sound. “I just,” Louis said, and his voice cracked. “It’s just shitty. It really is. I hate him, and it turns out the second time a dad leaves can actually be worse than the first, so there’s that.”

“Oh, Lou,” Harry said. He wanted so badly to kiss the tears away, but he didn’t know if they were at that place still. He didn’t know where the fuck he and Louis were anymore. The word _friends_ was still bouncing around in his head, but that word didn’t have any bearing when Louis had entwined his fingers with Harry’s and settled into his chest. He had no fucking clue how Louis saw him anymore, who Harry might be to him, but against his better judgment he knew he would be that person for as long as Louis needed him. 

“I mean, I guess you must know, to an extent,” Louis said.

“Know what? Oh, that. Yeah, my parents split when I was seven. I’ll tell you about it some other time if you want.”

“Will you, Harry?” Louis said, smiling even through his tears. “Will you please storm into my house in the middle of the night, take over my bed, and end up bawling and getting snot all over my pillow? Promise?”

“Anything for you,” Harry said, and he meant it. 

Louis couldn’t seem to stop crying once he had started. Harry shifted his position and turned so that Louis was crying into his t-shirt, holding onto him for dear life. After about half a box of tissues from Harry’s bedside table, all of which Louis threw with startlingly impressive aim into Harry’s wastebasket across the room, he finally sniffed and cleared his throat, wiping his eyes one more time. “Wow,” he said slowly. “I am…so embarrassed. Haven’t cried since before my sisters were born.” 

He said it so casually, in the same manner one might say, “Haven’t cried since _The Notebook_ was on two weeks ago,” that it took Harry a moment to realize what he had actually said. “Did you just say you haven’t cried since before your sisters were born?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, obviously nonplussed.

“Lou, your oldest sister is _eleven_.”

“So?”

“So, for comparison, the last time I cried was when I watched _Love, Actually_ last Thursday.” 

“You might not want to spread that around. _Love, Actually_ , seriously? What a crybaby,” Louis said, pulling back slightly to fix Harry with a shit-eating grin, and there was unmistakable affection in his tone. 

“I prefer the term ‘hopeless romantic,’ actually,” Harry said. He had never noticed the exact color of Louis’ eyes before now, when he was staring into them. They were the bright, clear blue of summer skies that held endless potential, and he had to remind himself that he had been planning to say something. “But still, I can’t _imagine_ how much you needed that.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Louis said, shrugging against Harry’s pillow. “I guess I didn’t want to freak Lottie out, and then eventually you just…forget that you might want to. Sorry about your t-shirt, by the way.”

Harry looked down at it, filmed with snot and damp with tears. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing that detergent can’t fix. Actually, I might change, though, if you don’t mind. If you want me to treasure your snot forever, I completely will.”

Louis waved him on, and Harry pulled his shirt off and lobbed it into the laundry basket before getting another one out of his dresser. He could feel Louis’ eyes on him, but there was absolutely _no_ way that he was making this night any more complicated than it already was. He got back in bed, pulling Louis tight against him automatically and proving his own point to himself.

“Are you tired?” Harry said.

“Yeah. I mean, I just released eleven years’ worth of emotion, for Christ’s sake,” Louis said. “But, erm, I should probably go, Harry.” 

He didn’t move.

“Just sleep over here,” Harry said, his voice husky from exhaustion and emotion. “Tell your mum you went to a friend’s.”

“What about clothes?”

“You can wear some of mine to school tomorrow and give them back later,” Harry said, completely forgetting that his main goal had been to hide Louis’ presence from his mum, and that would kind of spoil the entire ruse.

“There is no way this arse is fitting inside your jeans,” Louis said, squeezing his bum and scrunching his nose in displeasure at Harry.

Harry’s fingers were itching to follow Louis’ lead, maybe even dig in a little, but he knew this was not the right time to tell Louis that the only proper way to feel about his arse would be the admiration that came from gazing upon a particularly moving piece of art. _Don’t think about his arse at all,_ he told himself. _You’ve been doing so, so well_.

“I’m sure I’ve got something that will fit you,” he managed, tongue darting over his lips. He tried desperately to picture a page from his extremely dry history textbook rather than picturing what Louis’ bum might look like underneath his pants, how the pale, bare skin would curve out over his muscle and the indentations and marks Harry’s fingers could make there. _Kings of the House of Hanover, come on, Harry_.

“Alright.” Louis shrugged and dug his phone out of his pocket to type out a text to his mum while Harry tried to remember whether George Augustus Frederick had been George II or George IV.

Finally, he was thinking about nothing at all but the Hanovers and Louis had gotten no response from his mum, but had lain back in Harry’s arms, apparently satisfied. “Do you want me to turn off the light?” Harry asked.

“Sure,” Louis said.

Harry stretched his arm so that the tips of his fingers just brushed the light switch, and they were in the dark. 

He would have been kidding himself if he said he had never imagined sleeping in the same bed with Louis, but he hadn’t pictured it quite like this. He hadn’t thought he would feel like this. He had pictured all the—well, physical—stuff in his head quite a few times, but he had never once been able to predict a night like this, a night that would end with Louis asleep in his arms, his breathing slowing into a regular rhythm and his heart beating against Harry’s fingertips. His blood was surging and even though he could feel Louis’ every breath he somehow couldn’t bear having him even that far away. He had thought before that he wanted the sweet and affectionate Louis he had seen on Saturday, but now he realized that he just wanted Louis, all versions, and so badly. This was the first time he had ever felt that the force of his own want might actually pull him apart. He wanted kisses and sex and morning blowjobs and cuddling for far too long and even weird shit like grocery shopping together. He wanted holding hands in the park and just driving aimlessly whilst bickering over the playlist and buying popsicles for his little sisters and just getting to watch Louis be the person he was every day. Harry wanted everything with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! A few loose ends that are both pretty obvious: Harry’s “Your heart’s in the song…What team?” stuff is from _High School Musical_ , and Gemma’s comment about stealing the Declaration of Independence references the Nic Cage classic _National Treasure_. I do not own these franchises and claim no credit for them. 
> 
> Remember, this is an AU. Otherwise, Harry would totally be the little spoon :) 
> 
> I can’t resist dropping _Love, Actually_ into every Larry fic I write, evidently.
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed—I worked really hard on this chapter—but I also welcome concrit. Until next time!


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